


Run Dry

by dragonsong (NekoAisu)



Series: Commissioned Works [6]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Haurchefant Greystone Angst, Haurchefant Greystone Lives, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Patch 3.0: Heavensward, Patch 3.0: Heavensward Spoilers, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), The Vault (Final Fantasy XIV) Spoilers, wow that's a tag? rad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27519049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/dragonsong
Summary: Ser Zephirin’s spellwork burns his own away before it can do more than dull the least of the pain. He fights against it, using his own like a levee to force it back and away until it fades, whitish magicks cooling to blue and then guttering out. He breathes a sigh of relief with half of a breath, whispering each of his casts as quietly as he can.Haurchefant smiles at him as if he is not dying. His chest rises and falls shallowly, breath coming in rasps, and when he speaks it is barely audible above the wind.“You have a beautiful smile, Mikh’a. Try not to forget mine…”
Relationships: Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light
Series: Commissioned Works [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2011288
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Run Dry

**Author's Note:**

> Commissioned by [Tea!](https://twitter.com/orakariktelor)  
> Mikh’a is their WoL and is in no way mine!
> 
> Please understand that this work does not and will not contain links to my commissions or any related commercial/for-profit sites. These work was negotiated separate from Ao3. I do not take any profit from hosting publicly released commissions on this site.

There is no warning before the nightmare begins. What is there to say? Haurchefant (his friend, his family, his love) is bleeding out from a strike intended for  _ him  _ and he cannot manage the composure to put it to words. 

“Mikh’a, are you with us?” Lucia says, taking him by the shoulder when he refuses to look away. “You have curative arts on your side. Pray, do not let your panic consume you so.”

Does he? Will his magic be strong enough to fight against the damning brilliance of Ser Zephirin’s strike? 

He stares, but it’s as if he cannot truly see. There is no way this is true─and what is he doing if not wasting precious time? He needs to help (needs to  _ heal)  _ but his hands shake and the words will not come. He pushes aether from his core outward, the energy seizing and hissing instead of flowing as it usually would, directionless and volatile. It sparks when it finally spills from his hands. 

It won’t do. Attempting to heal Haurchefant in such a state would only harm him further.

He chokes on a sob, halfway to giving up just to spare them both the pain of his inevitable failure when he hears Haurchefant ask, ““Pray, do not look at me so.”

His aether stabilizes with a start and suddenly he can cast. He smiles, the motion pulling uncomfortably at his cheeks, and presses the first of a dozen spells from his palms through layers of armor, focusing on where it hurts most. It doesn’t do much. 

Ser Zephirin’s spellwork burns his own away before it can do more than dull the least of the pain. He fights against it, using his own like a levee to force it back and away until it fades, whitish magicks cooling to blue and then guttering out. He breathes a sigh of relief with half of a breath, whispering each of his casts as quietly as he can. 

Haurchefant smiles at him as if he is not dying. His chest rises and falls shallowly, breath coming in rasps, and when he speaks it is barely audible above the wind. 

“You have a beautiful smile, Mikh’a. Try not to forget mine…”

His expression falters when Lucia makes to wrap his wound, the thick linen lining of her uniform cape repurposed as bandaging. He hisses, but does not make to resist her ministrations, opting instead to gaze at Mikh’a with pain-glazed eyes. He tries for nonchalance, but there is a tension to the whole of him that matches the one living in the draw of Aymeric’s shoulders and the nearly too steady sensation of healing arts slowly knitting him back together like he is a craft to be reassembled. 

What he faces by way of pain is equal to that of Mikh’a’s exertions. Where he shudders at the burn of magic forcing his body to cling to life, the Keeper fights against exhaustion like it is the most critical of engagements he has ever faced. His nerves burn, fingers stiff as if he’d been soaking them in ice water, and yet he forges through it. He drains every last drop of his aether into Haurchefant’s body until the bleeding slows, stops, and is replaced by slow-growing scabs. 

When Lucia moves him, Mikh’a does not leave his side, one hand laced with his even as they hurry down the halls of the Vault, passing fallen constructs and clergy both. Haurchefant yawns, feeling more and more faint the longer he tries to stay awake. 

“Stay with us, Ser,” Lucia tells him, “even if it is the hardest of trials you have yet to overcome. You  _ must.” _

He makes it long enough for Mikh’a’s aether to run dry and the grand entryway to enter his vision. He begins to drift off when Mikh’a calls to him in a deceptively reverent tone. 

_ “Stay with me, my love.” _

His hand trembles where it rests palm-to-palm with Haurchefant’s own, watching his eyes slip closed with a smile plastered on to disguise his anxiety. He wishes that Haurchefant could manage to stay awake long enough to muster a reply, but by the time they step into the deep red of sunset, careening down the steps of the Vault, he is asleep. 

* * *

“You really should take the time to at least  _ wash up,”  _ Emmanelain says, and Haurchefant has the presence of mind to reply with a  _ wuh  _ sound instead of any coherent speech. He hurts all over like he’s been kicked by a chocobo (and he has experience with how that feels, unfortunately) and no amount of tea or sweetcakes will soothe the aching. Emmanelain does not seem to care all too much about that with how he all but throws himself atop him, laughing too loud for the throbbing of Haurchefant’s head. 

He withdraws with the biggest, most incandescent grin he has ever had in all his years before saying, “I need to tell father you’ve awoken! Mikh’a, old boy, do make sure to eat at the  _ absolute _ least. You’ve been there for days.” He skips from the room (Haurchefant’s childhood chambers, from the look of them) in pursuit of Edmont, Honoroit at his side. 

Haurchefant blinks, vision oddly blurry and eyes heavy despite what he now knows was multiple days-worth of sleep. His voice crackles when he tests it, throat and tongue drier than the worst of Coerthan summers, and he coughs a few times when the words stick instead of being spoken. 

Mikh’a offers him a cup of water, holding it and helping him drink when his arms tremble instead of supporting any weight. He looks  _ terrible  _ (not that things like dark circles or unkept hair would stop Haurchefant from loving him, but it is certainly a departure from his usual appearance). 

“Thank you,” he rasps. He looks down at the bandages wrapping around his torso from chest to hips, adding, “‘Tis good to be alive.”

Mikh’a smiles tiredly, shirt rumpled to match the rest of his countenance, and looks down at his hands. They are not so steady as he wishes them to be even now. 

“Oh, do not look at yourself so,” Haurchefant entreats, doing his best to look earnest and not too teasing. He takes Mikh’a’s hands in his own, wincing when the movement sends a thrill of pain racing down his spine. “I do believe I missed hearing something just as I fell asleep. May I trouble you to repeat it, my love?”

He watches as the Keeper’s cheeks flush with color, his eyes flicking to the far corner before slowly moving back toward him. He squares his shoulders, working himself up for something that Haurchefant would consider casual from any other person. 

When he opens his mouth the first time, nothing comes out of it. He looks at the far wall before gathering the courage to meet Haurchefant’s eyes, adoration shining within them as if he held a star within his heart. He takes a deep breath and repeats what Haurchefant had heard prior, affection visible in the softness of his gaze and voice both.

“Stay with me, my love. I could never forget your smile, but that does not mean I would like to lose you.”

Haurchefant smiles and Mikh’a thinks that maybe he should come with a warning, the joy in his expression bright enough to blind. It’s reassuring to see normally, much less after half a week spent fearing that he would not wake (that he would slip away despite everyone’s best efforts). 

Haurchefant reaches out clumsily, coordination not what it would be if he were hale in all ways, and barely avoids a collision in his attempt to pull Mikh’a close. He leans forward, back and neck protesting painfully at the motion, and rests their foreheads together. “Nor I you,” he promises. 

And he means it with all of his heart, even should his love and life run dry. 

**Author's Note:**

> scream with me about haurchefant on:  
> Twitter [@khirimochi](https://twitter.com/khirimochi) OR [@TheHolyBody (NSFW)](https://twitter.com/TheHolyBody)  
> Tunglr @[Main](https://kiriami.tumblr.com) OR @[FFXIV Imagines](https://ffxivimagines.tumblr.com)


End file.
